


Arya's Heart

by nakedmonkey



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arya is older...just picture 5 year gap if it was somehow incorporated, Arya thinks Jon is Dead, Cousin Incest, F/M, It's Spring because I didn't want to write about giant drifts of snow, JonxArya, No Beta, No war for the dawn has occurred and that aspect of it all might not be in this fic, bear with me, first fic, not afraid of smut but we will see where it goes, premise has Jon in an unlikely marriage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-14
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-08-22 08:27:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8279462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nakedmonkey/pseuds/nakedmonkey
Summary: Arya is going to rescue a prisoner from Winterfell, who is held by an imposter King in the North, and his queen, who calls herself Arya Stark.





	1. Home

As the sky blackened, the slivered moon sharpening in the sky, Arya woke, flat and silent in her bedroll. Had there been a sound, or was it the echo of her wolf dream? She waited, listening to the sound of her heartbeat, her quiet breathing, and the slight, cool wind caressing the tree branches.

_Nothing.  
_

Quiet as a shadow, she slipped from her bedroll, tucking Needle into her belt at the same time. She tied back her hair, now growing longer and apt to obstruct her view in a gust of wind, and then gathered her bedroll and few other possessions into a bundle. _Travel by night_ , the Kindly Man had once told her, and so she had slept since dusk in a small clearing surrounded by Sentinel saplings, a ways off from any road or common path where she might be discovered. Spring had come, but the North was still chilly, so she wore a warm woolen coat, which hood she pulled over her head before heading carefully towards where she knew the castle was.

 _Winterfell_.

It was so close, and yet it might as well be in Asshai, for how far it seemed. No matter how she had tried, she had never been able to get there, or to see her family again. She was a lone wolf, and anytime she had gotten close to her pack, she had been taken even further from them. And Mother and Robb, Bran and Rickon, they had all been slain. Even Jon Snow, who had been killed by his brothers of the Night’s Watch. As dead as the Brother she had killed and slipped into the canal in Braavos all those years ago, before the darkest winter had come. She knew, because of her wolf dream. Ghost howling silently, and his pack, each separated by distance, raising their heads and crying in unison. Arya had considered falling into the canal herself that day. Jon had been the brother she missed the most, the one silver thread she couldn’t cut during her time in the House of Black and White. His death should have sealed her fate as one of the Faceless Men, but instead she had killed the Waif and taken ship to Westeros, and a year of retribution and loneliness had passed.

“I had my revenge”, she whispered to herself, shivering, thinking of Walder Frey, of Cersei Lannister, who never knew it was Arya killing her. She pushed aside a vision of the Mountain, black blood spilling from his mouth and groin, his unblinking eyes corrupted with death already… _Best not._

Revenge had never filled the black hole where her heart had been with anything, but it never made the hole seal up either. One day, sitting in the dark in a tavern, wearing another face, Arya had heard rumors about a new King in the North. Jon Snow had turned into a wolf and torn apart his brothers of the Night’s Watch, and then turned towards Winterfell and tore Roose and Ramsay Bolton apart too, all so that he could marry his sister. “That proves his black bastard heart,” declared the speaker, slurring.

“Not so,” another patron had said wisely, “It was a dragon he became, and the lady Arya his cousin. But a bastard nonetheless.”

Arya, whose heart had stopped at mention of Jon, had left the tavern, aching and confused. It took a week, listening and asking, before she knew the tale. A new King in the North, the very same brother she had seen dead in her wolf dream, but who was a Targaryen and a Stark. A bride, who wore her own name, wedded in Winterfell.

  
_Imposters_. Arya had recognized Jeyne Poole, yesterday, from a distance, adorned in the achingly familiar grey and white of House Stark. Jeyne had been riding, head down, at the head of a column of solemn Northmen and fierce wildlings, escorting captives back to Winterfell.

 _At least she is of the North_ , Arya thought, and it didn’t hurt so much. She could never forgive the King in the North for pretending to be Jon, but she could forgive Jeyne. Arya understood what it meant to take a face, so she buried her feelings into the pit of her stomach. It was not for Jeyne or the king that she approached Winterfell. _Home_ , she thought again, wondering if it really was. Wondering if the heart tree was still there, with its rustling red leaves and sad, scary face. Had Old Nan survived? She would give anything to listen to one of her stories again, curled up with Bran by the crackling hearth, Sansa whispering with Jeyne nearby, Robb and Father somewhere in the godswood. Mother with baby Rickon, auburn hair shining in the firelight as she soothed him to sleep. Jon Snow smiling softly from an alcove when she turned to catch his eye.

 _Enough_. Arya shivered. Winterfell loomed above, growing as she took each careful step, pulling her with memories. _They are all dead. Except for one_.

The girl had almost been obscured amongst the other captives and surrounding Northmen, but Arya had caught a glimpse of her auburn hair, and quick as a snake, had gotten to higher ground for a better view. Arya had known her sister instantly; despite the squalor of Sansa’s appearance, hair tangled like Arya’s had once been and her garments torn and fouled, Sansa was ever the lady, sitting properly in her saddle with her head held high, just like Mother had always said to do.

The guards at Winterfell were visible, and keeping a watchful eye in all directions, but Arya had become the dark, and she knew Winterfell as the guards did not. When she was little, sometimes, when Sansa and Jeyne had scorned her, and Jon Snow was nowhere to be found; she had joined Bran as he climbed. She had never been as good of a climber as him, but she had still been able to scale the wall into the godswood, clambering awkwardly after him as he fit his hands and feet into the hidden crannies. It was this route she took, much more graceful than her younger self. _Bran and I would be matched in climbing now_ , she thought sadly. _If he was alive_.

*****

Her feet landed softly on the mossy ground inside the godswood. The scent of pine and earth and water was strong and so heady that she could only rest her head on the inner wall for a long moment and breathe it in.

It was too dark under the cover of branches to see, so Arya skimmed a hand first over Needle, still secure in her belt, and then set down her pack next to the inner wall, ensuring it was intact before untying a particular flap and finding the clothing she would need. She stripped, shivering with gooseflesh raising the hairs on her arms and legs, tucked under her arm Needle and what she needed from the pack, and then padded through the dark, familiar godswood towards the heart tree and the warm pool where she could clean away the obvious grime of her travels.


	2. Sister

The cell was empty. Arya chewed her lip, lifting the lantern higher so that the light shone off the scattered straw. There was no sign of a recent inhabitant. Sighing, she padded back the way she had come, quietly slipping into a corridor, and climbed the stairs to the castle proper. It made sense now, that a vacant prison would be unguarded. Finding the chamber where Sansa was kept would be more challenging, but she had not followed her sister this far to give up.

Rumor of Sansa had reached Arya when she was in the Riverlands, the scent of revenge and blood still in her nostrils. Queen Cersei was dead, Arya’s own doing, and the smoke was still rising from the wildfire in King’s Landing. Cersei had done that herself. Arya had not known what to do, so she had set forth towards Riverrun. Her uncle Edmure was there, and maybe he would want her, even though he was a stranger. As so often happens, it was in a tavern that she heard the rumor. _Sansa_. A marriage to a Vale lord, the reveal of her Stark name. The banners of the Eyrie, finally called. The thought of seeing Sansa again gave Arya a new purpose.

But the armies of the Vale, along with Sansa, had already gone North by the time Arya got there. To take back Winterfell from the imposters. To win back their home.

The girl whose face Arya now wore had been a lowborn Westerosi girl with unremarkable features. With her simple servant’s garb, Arya passed through the castle without much notice. In the kitchens, she gathered a tray with cheese, hard bread, and a flagon of water. The unfamiliar cook looked at her sharply when she entered, but Arya’s nonchalance and familiarity with the kitchen seemed to put the woman at ease. “They asked me to take some food for m’lady Sansa,” said Arya. “But they didn’t tell me where to find her.”

*****

  
The chamber was guarded, but not heavily; merely a single guard keeping watch. It was easy to slip past him when he idled in the corridor. The door itself was unlocked. Quiet as a shadow, Arya slipped into the darkness and shut the door again. She stood there a moment, allowing her eyes to adjust to the dim light cast by the coals in the hearth.

Sansa’s bedchamber was different than it had been, all those years ago; the tapestries had been removed, Sansa’s chests full of belongings, of course, had been taken to King’s Landing and never returned. The bed was the same bed though, and in it, the very same sister she had last seen wailing on the steps of the Sept of Baelor when Ilyn Payne had cut off Father’s head. Older now, and more beautiful even though she had clearly wept before falling asleep. Arya almost felt dizzy, seeing her there, and had to count her breaths to steady herself.

Sansa’s hair was splayed out on the pillow, and her face was smooth with sleep. Arya padded towards the bed, wondering if she should wake her. Would Sansa scream? Would she be angry at Arya for leaving her alone in King’s Landing? Part of her wanted to turn around, to flee Winterfell, to keep her heart empty and safe. She slipped Needle from under her roughspun tunic, crouched to set the bravo’s blade on the rushes.

“I dreamed about Lady,” Sansa whispered, voice muffled from sleep, startling Arya into a gasp.

Sansa’s eyes flew open.

“Arya?” There was first hope, but then confusion in her face as the voice she had heard didn’t match the face she saw. “I’m sorry, I"-

Arya breathed. _Fear cuts deeper than swords_. She ran her hand over her face, feeling the weight of the dead peasant girl lift from her as she removed the glamour. Feeling as naked as on her name day, she took two steps towards her sister and then stood there, uncertain.

Sansa stared at her, mouth wide open. “It _is_ you.”

Suddenly Arya found herself scrambling across the bed and into a tearful embrace, her own eyes blurred. Sansa was sobbing freely, clutching her tight, and Arya’s fears—that Sansa wouldn’t want her or forgive her, were all forgotten _. You may be as different as the sun and the moon, but the same blood flows through both your hearts_ , Father had once told Arya, and she knew it was true.

“Hush,” Arya whispered into her hair, patting her awkwardly. “Hush. I came to save you. To rescue you. You stop crying now before they hear you.”

Sansa’s tears shuddered to a halt, but her breath was still hitching. “I’m no prisoner,” she sniffled. “Not anymore. I thought you…When I found out Jeyne was pretending to be you, I thought you were dead…And Petyr—Lord Baelish, he said that, he said Jon was dead too, stabbed by the Night’s Watch. I believed him, everything he said…” She trailed off, suddenly still. “But why are you here? How did you…I thought you were someone else when I first woke. Your face—” Arya silenced her sister with a finger. They could discuss it later.

“That doesn’t matter right now,” Arya told her. “You need to get up…I brought extra clothes, so don’t worry about dressing. They aren’t guarding you very well right now.” She tried to haul Sansa by the arm, but the girl pulled her arm free.

“You don’t understand. Arya"-

The door slammed open, the room filling with men, swords drawn.

“Lady Stark!” Shouted the foremost, a large grizzled man wearing Stark armor. “Are you harmed?”

Face still swollen with tears, Sansa climbed out of the bed. Her voice was suddenly calm. “No, my lord. Please, sheathe your weapons and send word to my brother.” She looked around at Arya, her expression strange. “Cousin, I mean. The king.”

The grizzled man barked some orders, and three men set off to find the king. Three more lingered, but Sansa courteously—and unlike a prisoner—ordered them to wait outside the chamber, but to send someone to stoke the fire. Surprisingly, the men relented, and the sisters were left alone again.

“You’re not a prisoner? I saw you in chains. With Jeyne Poole. When I found the Vale army, they said you had been captured.”

“I was captured,” Sansa admitted, sitting on the bed. “I was coming to take Winterfell, but I was captured by Northmen at an inn. Lord Baelish, he told me, it was my right, as the last surviving Stark. And it was true, but…” she tapered off, wringing her hands. “A messenger has been sent, to the men of the Vale, to continue to Winterfell, but to merge forces instead of setting siege as we had planned. When I saw Jeyne—”

“But why would you do that?” Arya blurted.

Sansa leaned forward, her blue eyes gleaming in the dim light. “Littlefinger lied to me. About Jon, I mean, not Jeyne. It’s _really_ Jon.”

The bedchamber seemed to be spinning, and Arya had to grip the bedpost for fear of flying off. Jon was dead, she knew. She could still taste the blood, the salt and smoke, from her wolf dream. Ghost howling silently. _It can’t be_. Any time Arya had been close to her heart’s desire, she had been taken further away. Like when the Hound had captured her before she could get to Riverrun, and when he had taken her there, Mother and Robb were already dead. Or when she tried to go to the Wall, but the ship’s captain would only take her to Braavos. She did not dare to believe it.

“No,” Arya whispered, shuddering. “Jon died at the Wall. I had a dream.”

Suddenly she was off the bed, Needle tucked back under her tunic in the hidden belt there. She donned the peasant girl’s face, with its burden. She opened the door, and called out, “Lady Stark needs you, quickly!” As the men rushed into the bedchamber, Arya slipped past them.

She found herself running wildly down the corridor, the warm air rushing past, the clamor of armed pursuit mingling with Sansa’s shrill protests.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need to stop doing super late night writing. I'm not sure if this came out as smoothly as I wanted. This chapter took me 4 hours and it was only 3 pages in Word, so respect to anyone more prolific than me. Regardless, here it is. Let me know what you think, and if you have any suggestions or think anything needs clarifying, let me know.
> 
> Considering switching perspective to Jon for the next "chapter", but I will cross that bridge tomorrow.  
> Thanks!


	3. Returning

 

Arya was ashamed. She had run from her sister, like a small girl. Like the little girl Arya had been before. Not brave, like a wolf, or even sneaky, like she had been when she was Nan or Weasel. Even Blind Beth would have been braver, but Beth had been hopeless, and Sansa’s words had taken that away.

 _It was really Jon_ , the words echoed in her head, a blade sharper than any dagger, as Arya crept through the dark godswood towards the wall where her pack was stowed. It couldn’t really be, could it?

The familiar wood seemed oppressively dark around her, cutting off the stars and movement in the air as she moved further, growing more cautious in her steps. There was nothing here for her, she knew. Her sister had become mad. Arya had tried to save her, but Sansa wouldn’t go.

Maybe Arya could travel North to the Wall, become a boy again, and pledge her service to the Night’s Watch. Kill Jon’s real killers, if any of them lived yet. She could already imagine it; Arry, a bastard from the North. “I’ve heard there is honor even for a bastard, in the Night’s Watch,” she would say. She would gather supplies along the way. Surely they would let her keep Needle.

And if not, she would sneak the slender blade in.

  
Her pack was where she had left it, ready to be donned for the journey, but instead she found herself rummaging through it, strewing the contents onto the moss in the dark. Unsure of what she was looking for.

 _No_ , she decided. _A wolf wouldn’t run away, not even a lone one_. She circled again and crept back the way she had come.

*****

The heart tree resided over its dark pool, as it always had. The face made Arya shiver. A face both sad and frightening, but it was the face of her home. As she passed, the wind picked up again and the leaves, shaped like hands, seemed to whisper, _Arya, Arya, Arya_ …

 _Be quiet, you old gods_ , she thought. They had never helped her before. Before she left Winterfell forever, she had to try and convince Sansa to go with her one more time. And she had to see this imposter King in the North.

 _Maybe I’ll kill him_ , thought Arya. But revenge was a sour and disappointing thought; little use, she knew, like thrusting a spear into the air and expecting it to catch a fish.

*****

The sound of wolves echoed in his dream, and Jon started awake just before he heard the polite but urgent knock on his bedchamber door. The raven screeched and landed in his face.

 _Thank you for reminding me how kingly I am_ , he thought. As he rose, the raven settled its sharp claws around his shoulder, digging in. “Corn,” it muttered. Jon ignored it and told Sam to enter.

The fat young man opened the door so quickly that he seemed startled by his own entrance. The two looked at each other for a moment; Sam, brown eyes wide, maester collar clacking together, and the king, half up, naked with a bird flapping on his shoulder. Next to Jon, his queen was wide awake, her brown eyes blinking and frightened by the commotion. _Jeyne_ , his thoughts whispered, though she was called Arya Stark by all. _A grey girl on a dying horse_ , the red woman had said, and he had been certain, both times, it was his little sister.

“Please,” said Jon. “You’ve awakened the queen. What is it?”

“My lord. Your Grace. You need to come, Sansa….Lady Sansa calls for you.”

Jon rolled quickly to his feet, naked, and felt for Longclaw before he started pulling his clothing on. Once he was modest, he turned to Jeyne. “Rest easy,” he said, gently. “I’ll see to my sister, and return.” Jeyne was entirely wild eyes, but said nothing, and Jon couldn’t help remembering when she had first arrived at Castle Black, soon after his treacherous death and…he stifled a brief image of Ghost, his silent howl, so pale and full of ice, of the taste of blood, of the great pack Ghost ran with, the scent of his mate…. _Enough_.

Jeyne had toiled to the Wall, clothed in the grey and white of House Stark, horse nearly dead below her, her escorts long lost in the snow behind her. Just like Alys Karstark had, but instead of the brave Winter’s lady who had smiled at him as Arya would have, this was a broken girl. The part of him that had wanted to smash her face in died when the men left the room, and she fell to her knees, crying. Begging, for Jon to just kill her. Any death he might give her, just don’t give her back to Ramsay. Jon had promised her not to, and he hadn’t.

 _Ramsay is dead_ , Jon thought grimly, as he headed down the familiar corridors of Winterfell towards Sansa’s chambers, Sam trailing him. He wished it gave him more pleasure, but it didn’t. He’d gained a kingdom, a sad, terrified wife, and finally a sister from the whole ordeal.

Not the sister he wanted, but it had still been sweet yesterday, to see Sansa again. Looking the very image of Lady Stark, but with something in her eyes that reminded him so very much of Father, he had pushed every blade aside to embrace her.

Sansa was in the corridor waiting for him, her blue eyes shining in the lamplight as they approached. She looked relieved to see him. After sending the men to survey her chamber, he inclined his head to her. “Lady Sansa.”

“My king, may we speak privately?”

Jon nodded, and they both slipped into the warmth of her chambers. The fire had been built, and was crackling loudly. Everything in the chamber was neat; the furs on the bed didn’t appear to have been moved, the small table had a mostly untouched tray of food and a flagon of wine sitting undisturbed on it. Sansa moved, quietly to her chair near the hearth.

“Why”—started Jon, but then he saw the girl.

His impression was of a plain faced girl, garbed as a servant in brown rough spun. But she was gasping, as though she had been shot by an arrow. _You know nothing, Jon Snow_ , he thought.

And then the girl threw herself down on the rushes, gripping her own face, crying, and when she turned her face up again, it was his heart’s desire.

 


	4. The Crypts

 

Arya’s heart exploded; the empty hole blooming, burning into life so fiercely that she could barely comprehend it, more colorful and brilliant than any sun being born.

Jon was alive!

And he was suddenly kneeling before her, where she sat, his dark grey eyes shining in his long, familiar face. He was older, and sadder, she thought. But really Jon, as Sansa had promised.

“Let me see you,” he said hoarsely, searching her face with his eyes. Arya closed her own eyes under his scrutiny, tears slipping beneath her lids and tracking silently down her face. _Does he not know me? Will he still love the woman I have become?_ She was afraid to open them again, for fear of her new heart being crushed by his indifference. All this time, she had been certain Jon would want her, if he were alive.

He spoke again, his voice deeper than it had been years ago; a man’s voice, but still the most familiar sound in the world: “Two times, I thought my little sister had returned to me, and two times, it was false.”

He brought both hands to her face, and she could feel the strength in his hands as he tilted her head towards the firelight, not ungentle, but not tender either. Arya still didn’t open her eyes, but allowed him to look at her face, and listened to the sound of his breath.

“It’s Arya,” she heard Sansa tell him, softly, seated across the room. The sisters had spoken of it briefly, before Jon arrived. _It’s like a story Old Nan would tell, or a tale from the_ songs, Sansa had murmured. But she had believed it. “She was in Braavos, with the Faceless Men,” Sansa added.

His hands fell away from Arya’s face, and his breath grew quiet. Steeling herself, she opened her eyes. Jon’s face was unreadable. Her new heart ached as he rose to his feet and looked down at her with the face of a king.

“Guide me to the crypts of Winterfell,” he commanded. He turned to Sansa, but she shook her head, so Arya and Jon went alone.

*****

The fat man outside Sansa’s door had gawked at her and stuttered a protest, but Jon had waved him away and gestured for Arya to take the lead. She led him through the familiar halls, barely able to think, her new heart seeming to beat in time with her footsteps.

 _He used to muss my hair and call me little sister_ , she thought, _but now he sees a stranger_. _He sees No One_. It was because of the face she had been wearing when he first saw her again, she knew, and she wished now that she’d believed Sansa, about Jon.

She could feel him watching her as he followed her the long and secret way, but she didn’t look back, afraid to turn around and see his icy gaze. They only slowed once, to obtain a lantern to light the way.

It was only when she had led him within the crypts that she heard him take a long and ragged breath. _Not yet_ , she thought, so she continued, down the dark steps into the crypts.

They slowly passed through the crypts, the stern Kings of Winter watching them with their rusted swords and stone direwolves at their sides. Eventually, the Kings of Winter became Lords of Winterfell and the North, and the chill grew deeper. She had almost forgotten how vast this place was.

“Do you remember how we used to play down here?” asked Arya, her voice startlingly loud after so much quiet. She almost thought she saw the lords of Winterfell turn their heads in admonishment. Jon stopped for a moment behind her, but she continued walking.

“I do,” he said simply, following her again.

*****

“Father,” whispered Arya, gazing at Lord Eddard Stark’s likeness, and there were tears in her eyes again. She set her lantern in an alcove and stood on her tiptoes, running her hand over the cold stone face. Jon watched her from the shadows.

“I saw when they cut off his head, in King’s Landing,” she told him. “I tried to stop them. I had Needle—I still do”— she gestured to the slender blade at her waist—“But Yoren, your Brother from the Night’s Watch, he stopped me, and he kept me safe.” She heard Jon’s sharp intake of breath at the name. “He was going to take me to Winterfell on the way to the Wall, but…” she almost told him about Amory Lorch, and how he had killed almost all of the men and boys who would have become Jon’s Brothers on the Wall, but that would lead to a story longer and sadder than she cared to tell him just yet.

“I was such a stupid little girl, Jon. Every time I got close enough to anyone, to Father, and then Mother and Robb, the gods took them away. I kept getting lost, and I lost everyone. Even _me_. And even you, eventually.”

She felt Jon take a step closer to her. “No,” he said.

She took a deep breath. “Remember what you said? Before you went to the Wall and I went to King’s Landing. After you gave me Needle.” _Stick them with the pointy end_ , she thought, but that wasn’t what she meant.

She turned to him, facing her fear, her new heart as vulnerable as a spring sapling peeking through the snow, reaching its leaves towards the sun. Jon’s grey eyes seemed almost black, here in the crypts, but the icy mask he had worn was gone. Suddenly his face looked younger, like the boy she had parted ways with so long ago. She let out a shuddering breath of relief.

“Different roads sometimes lead to the same castle,” Jon whispered, and he came to her, pulling her into his arms at last.

*****

“Forgive me, little sister,” said Jon in her ear. They were still deep within the crypts, huddled together in an alcove near Father’s tomb, and even the warmth of Jon’s body and his cloak wrapped around them both couldn’t stop the chill from seeping into Arya’s bones.

“Of course I forgive you,” she said, poking him. It was something a younger Arya would have done, though she would have called him stupid, too, before. His mouth turned up into a brief smile before he grew serious again.

“I’ve seen a glamour before,” he told her. “Dark magic. I had to be certain. Especially after”—his voice grew pained—“I thought I had you home, twice before. I dared to hope, and both times, it was someone else.”

“Jeyne,” whispered Arya. She didn’t like to think about Jeyne; it was a niggling thought, that Sansa’s girlhood friend was wearing Arya’s name and title as surely as Arya had worn the face of Blind Beth, or Mercy. _And Jon married her_. It was such a strange thought. It had seemed so simple before, when she’d thought Jon was dead and they were both imposters.

Jon nodded. “I would have never wed her,” he said. “If I had known you were alive—or even Sansa, no matter what Robb’s will said. I wouldn’t have claimed your birthright and lived this dishonor. Your lord father would be ashamed of me.”

 _Your father_ , he had said, _not_ our _father_. “So it’s true then,” breathed Arya. She felt stupid, all of a sudden. _Of course it’s true_. Jon couldn’t have married someone who called herself Arya Stark otherwise.

“It’s true,” he said flatly, “though I didn’t know it when I was first declared King in the North. I’d kept Jeyne’s secret, to keep her safe. It didn’t seem to matter, anymore. It was as though you had died, again. The wretched girl barely spoke; she had been abused so badly by Ramsay Bolton, and only wanted freedom from pain…” His brow furrowed. “But then Howland Reed exposed the truth of me to everyone in the North.”

Jon gestured to the statue of Lyanna Stark, his eyes glittering in the lamplight. “Lord Reed urged me to go to the dragon queen, at Dragonstone with her armies.” He swallowed. “My aunt, in truth. Many lords encouraged it—wanting the power the Iron Throne would bring them.”

“But you don’t want the Iron Throne.”

“No. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, your lord father always said. I thought it had to be me.”

 _But why did you wed a false Stark_? She didn’t ask. A monstrous thought struck her suddenly: If _Jeyne is Arya,_ I _can’t be Arya_.

Jon had always known her best, and he answered her unspoken thought. “Now that you are home,” he said earnestly, and Arya shivered as he reached up to stroke her hair. “I cannot lie any more. You will have Winterfell, and the North. Jeyne must be sent away first, lest the wrath of your lords follow her. Sansa was disinherited by Robb, before he died, but you still have a claim, and she will support you, as Lady of the Vale. She already did as much for me, whom she always called her bastard half brother.”

“And you?”

He turned his head away. “I will be your servant, or an exile. This was never meant to be mine.”

“Winterfell was always yours too,” Arya said stubbornly, catching his calloused hand and kissing it once, hard. “And I fear what the lords of the North might do, if they know you lied to them.” She realised she was trembling.

Jon realised it too. “My lady,” he said, concerned. The words sounding oddly formal in her ears. “We should go up to the castle proper, where it’s warm…” He started to rise, pulling her with him, but she held on to his hand and refused to move.

“Promise me, Jon,” she said fiercely, “You will not do anything yet, or tell anyone. I don’t have to be Arya. I don’t want to be Arya, if I have to be alone again.”

He studied her face hard for a long moment before he shut his eyes, pained. “Not yet then,” he promised. “But please, Arya, come up to the castle. I had enough cold on the Wall.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading!


	5. Dream

The first time Nymeria had mated, Jon had been long dead, and Arya was sleeping in the shadows of the Twins, plotting revenge. So close to her prey. So close to Nymeria that she felt almost more wolf than girl, even awake.

Part of her had wanted to give up, to slip away into the forest, to become one with the pack, to run and hunt. Even leave her own body behind, let it become a rotting shell on the riverbank, as her mother had once been, in another wolf dream. But she had camped anyway, in the dark, just Arya and her bedroll, Needle and a small bundle of things. Wearing again the face of Mercy; pretty enough to be allowed into Lord Frey’s midst, perhaps. She had other faces and reasons at the ready, should that fail.

Nymeria was in her heat when the silent white direwolf found her again; the first time they’d been together since they were pups. He had not tucked his tail and licked his muzzle, as all other wolves did in her presence, but had come to her without fear, snarling at any wolf who dared approach them, his red eyes burning. He had taken her immediately, and she had let him.

The mating had been so brutal and sweet that Arya had woken afterwards, aching between her legs. She had reached down and felt the slippery wetness there, the nub at the top swollen with need, and had been unable to resist touching it until she climaxed quickly and wildly, panting with her face in the dirt in the moonlight.

 When she had risen from her bedroll, she had felt oddly hopeful. If Ghost was alive, then maybe there was some of Jon inside him.  But after the day had passed and it grew dark, when she was washing blood from her hands in the river, she had grown sad again, and felt guilty, knowing that Jon would never have allowed Ghost to mate with her, if he had been alive. She felt like she had betrayed him.

Last night, however, there was no rutting in the wood, only the hunt. The taste of blood, the scent of her mate, and the howling of her great pack faded into the sounds of the crackles of the low hearth in the chamber Arya was sleeping in. She was so warm. _Jon_ , she thought, and she realised he was still next to her. She could feel him breathing, his back against her own. She wondered now, if he had been with Ghost when she was dreaming. Had he been there all along?

She felt him wake. They both turned to face each other. Neither of them had undressed or even pulled the furs over them before falling asleep. He hadn’t even tried to say farewell; it had seemed natural that he would stay at her side, last night.

“Little sister,” he said, grinning, and he reached over with his hand to tussle her hair, as he had always done before. Arya’s heart swelled, and she couldn’t help but grin back at him, taking in his face, still soft from sleep, his tousled dark hair, his grey eyes which reminded her so of Father’s and her own.

There was a knock at the door, and they both started.

Sansa opened the door and slipped in before either of them could speak. She was dressed already, in a blue velvet gown, the sigil of the Eyrie embroidered on the breast, her auburn hair brushed into soft waves.

 “Forgive me,” she said, always courteous. “But they are looking for you, Your Grace.” She regarded them both, her blue eyes almost translucent in the dim morning light, and a smile ghosted across her face. “I could almost imagine we were children again, seeing you two here.”

This was Jon’s old chamber, from when he had been a bastard son of Eddard Stark. Arya had always found Jon here, when she was afraid or lonely, and Jon had never turned her away. Now he was the king, and inhabited the chambers of the Lord of Winterfell. None but Sansa would have known to look for them here.

 Jon grunted and rolled to his feet, reaching to the bedside for his sword with the wolf’s head pommel. Arya didn’t move, only watched him as he rose, slinging the sword over his back.  He strode out of the room towards the armed men she could hear approaching in the corridor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very short chapter. Was going to write more but I'm drinking wine and it only gets sloppy from here. Also anything wrong with this chapter, I blame on the wine.


End file.
